Mortal Games

Mortal Games

Here they come again
It's that time of year:
Those latter-day young aristocrats
In fashionable sporting gear.

Pealing laughter and frequent kills
Echo through the air,
As they trample the scrub
Scaring out gamey quail or snipe -
Trophies to boast of at the local pub.

When at last the killing is over,
Off to the local
In large range rover,
To brag to each of hunting skill,
And what a life it is to kill.

And left behind
On the killing ground
A littering of dead lapwing,
Lark and starling;
But those chaps are happy now,
Having bagged a brace or two
To show to darling.